Dearest "Friend-with-the-wild-hair",
It has taken me ten years to do this. Ten years to even acknowledge that in some dark corner inside me, I have a bundle of emotions that I need to address. Ten years to deal with the fact that I wasn't there with you, for you, when you needed me and there's nothing I can do about that now. I was young, immature and took it for granted that we had our entire lives ahead of us - to talk again, to sort differences, to go back to where we started. I didn't stop to think that those pill overdoses and those slit wrists weren't just resolved incidents from the past but rather a warning that when things went from bad to worse, you had your own way to deal with it.
I've seen you at your worst. I have very vivid memories of entering a smoke filled hostel room and finding you sitting on your bed, in the darkness, dark circles around your eyes, band aids masking your grim experiments. Vivid memories of being unable to get a word out of your mouth. Being unable to get you to perform the most basic tasks. Being unable to get you to close your eyes and sleep. I also have memories of those rare nights when I've just sat by you and listened as your dark thoughts spilled out of your mouth - the rants, the accusations, the confessions, the tirades. When harsh judgement spewed out of you - against humanity, against me, but worst of all, against yourself.
I remember sitting next to you in dingy corridors of medical facilities, holding your head against my shoulder, as nurses wrapped bandages over wounds you inflicted on yourself - the cuts, the burns. And even at your worst, I remember you putting your hands around a weeping, sobbing me, and assuring me that I wasn't helpless, useless; that I was actually helping you, by just being there with you.
I also remember the streaks of light amidst the darkness - long evening walks in dark alleys, sitting on lawns during sunny days reading Orwell and Greene, black coffee dates, discussions of life and love, and afternoons where I've sat on your bed, watching you hesitatingly grab the paint brush to immerse yourself in your first love - art.
Those vignettes gave me hope that all was not lost. That under all the dark circles, bandaged wrists and cigarette darkened lips, my wild-hair-friend still existed. The one with the red tinted mop of curly hair on her head. The one with the kohl lined, expressive eyes. The one whose upper lip disappeared during cheeky grins. The one who carried herself with so much style and confidence that it was impossible to not notice her. The effortlessly brilliant one, the insanely artistic one. The one who laughed silly at her own pathetic jokes. The one who constantly beat me at my own game. The one I liked, loved and treasured.
Saying that takes me back to the first day I met you. I've heard that we were classmates in second grade but that's not even a memory for me. My first memory of you will be the time I saw you in the college corridor, on the first day of classes. You, in your yellow salwar - tall and imposing. Brief introductions, some small talk and then I said something. For the life of me, I can't remember what I said, but I remember your response. "You know, I usually don't like bubbly people, but I think I'll like you!".
I miss you, my friend. You'll always be the dull ache I feel when I talk about close friends, about mental illness, about losing people I've loved.
It has taken me ten years to do this. Ten years to even acknowledge that in some dark corner inside me, I have a bundle of emotions that I need to address. Ten years to deal with the fact that I wasn't there with you, for you, when you needed me and there's nothing I can do about that now. I was young, immature and took it for granted that we had our entire lives ahead of us - to talk again, to sort differences, to go back to where we started. I didn't stop to think that those pill overdoses and those slit wrists weren't just resolved incidents from the past but rather a warning that when things went from bad to worse, you had your own way to deal with it.
I've seen you at your worst. I have very vivid memories of entering a smoke filled hostel room and finding you sitting on your bed, in the darkness, dark circles around your eyes, band aids masking your grim experiments. Vivid memories of being unable to get a word out of your mouth. Being unable to get you to perform the most basic tasks. Being unable to get you to close your eyes and sleep. I also have memories of those rare nights when I've just sat by you and listened as your dark thoughts spilled out of your mouth - the rants, the accusations, the confessions, the tirades. When harsh judgement spewed out of you - against humanity, against me, but worst of all, against yourself.
I remember sitting next to you in dingy corridors of medical facilities, holding your head against my shoulder, as nurses wrapped bandages over wounds you inflicted on yourself - the cuts, the burns. And even at your worst, I remember you putting your hands around a weeping, sobbing me, and assuring me that I wasn't helpless, useless; that I was actually helping you, by just being there with you.
I also remember the streaks of light amidst the darkness - long evening walks in dark alleys, sitting on lawns during sunny days reading Orwell and Greene, black coffee dates, discussions of life and love, and afternoons where I've sat on your bed, watching you hesitatingly grab the paint brush to immerse yourself in your first love - art.
Those vignettes gave me hope that all was not lost. That under all the dark circles, bandaged wrists and cigarette darkened lips, my wild-hair-friend still existed. The one with the red tinted mop of curly hair on her head. The one with the kohl lined, expressive eyes. The one whose upper lip disappeared during cheeky grins. The one who carried herself with so much style and confidence that it was impossible to not notice her. The effortlessly brilliant one, the insanely artistic one. The one who laughed silly at her own pathetic jokes. The one who constantly beat me at my own game. The one I liked, loved and treasured.
Saying that takes me back to the first day I met you. I've heard that we were classmates in second grade but that's not even a memory for me. My first memory of you will be the time I saw you in the college corridor, on the first day of classes. You, in your yellow salwar - tall and imposing. Brief introductions, some small talk and then I said something. For the life of me, I can't remember what I said, but I remember your response. "You know, I usually don't like bubbly people, but I think I'll like you!".
I miss you, my friend. You'll always be the dull ache I feel when I talk about close friends, about mental illness, about losing people I've loved.